Chief Helm Officer: The Memoirs of Lt Benara Stadi
by jamelia116
Summary: AU. Lt. Stadi does not die during Caretaker, and she is able to bear witness to the relationships of Paris and Torres, Janeway and Chakotay, among others, as she serves as a "part time" officer on board Voyager during the rest of the trip home. While started a decade ago, this story has not been published before.
1. Bad Boy

**Chief Helm Officer: **

**The Memoirs of Lt. Benara Stadi**

**By Jamelia**

He was going to be trouble. I didn't need any telepathic abilities to know it, either. He was long, lean, drop-dead gorgeous, and oozed attitude. Just my type.

From the way he languidly stared at me, with those crystalline blue eyes lazily traveling up and down my body, his fine lips quivering in anticipation and hinting at the sensual delights he could offer, I knew I could just dive into his arms and lose myself in his body for as long as it lasted - which I had a hunch wouldn't be for very long. For as long as it lasted, though . . . yum.

I make no apologies. It had been over six months since Fitz and I had called it quits. I hadn't been involved with anyone else in all that time. A woman has needs. I've never been fond of sleeping alone, but that doesn't mean I'd take just anyone. I have my standards.

I knew this guy was a bad boy just waiting to break the heart of anyone who was unwary enough to become seriously involved with him. I might have risked a few hours on a quickie fling if I'd encountered him on Risa or shore leave somewhere, despite my perceptions of his character, but that wasn't an option this time. My captain had ordered me to ferry him "on the double" between the ship transporting him from Earth to the Bajoran sector and _Voyager_. That meant no time for dallying. Strictly business.

Besides, we were going to be serving on the same ship for an unknown length of time. From what I already knew of his history, I thought I'd be better off giving him a smack to keep him in his place than a kiss. The last thing I needed was a jailbird for a boyfriend, no matter how he made my whole body tremble at my first sight of him.

"Are you Mr. Thomas E. Paris, _Voyager's_ new 'observer'?" I asked, more to identify myself to him than the other way around. I knew very well who he was from the photograph embedded in his computer file.

"That's my name and my game right now," he drawled, pursing his lips together as he closed his mouth on the last word. Gods, I could just hear the wolf-whistle all but fighting to get out.

"Get your gear and follow me," I said brusquely, whirling around to escape the promise in his eyes. I'd had enough of broken promises in my life already.

I heard the brush of his duffle dragging against the floor for a split second, then his boot heels clicking against the floor as he followed me to the shuttle. To calm my raging hormones I recalled what Fitz insisted on telling me when he found out about my errand; about the pieces of bodies he'd had to bag up after the pilot had broken them apart at Caldik Prime. He hadn't known at the time that Paris' error had caused their deaths, of course. Until he'd confessed and been thrown out of Starfleet, no one had even suspected it, apparently. Fitz, of course, claimed he knew something had to be missing from Paris' story even then, although he didn't know enough about flight training missions at the time to be able to guess what it might be.

Personally, I think Fitz never had a clue about what had happened until learning of Tom's confession of guilt. Then he put it all together. It was like him to make claims like that, though, one of those irritating habits that finally made me call it quits with him. Perhaps I wasn't being fair - it could also have been the ghost of our broken relationship still haunting me. After talking with Fitz, however, I resolved not to have anything more to do with Thomas E. Paris, late of Starfleet, than duty required. My visceral reaction to him when I actually met the man face-to-face was a shock. Usually, I was very good at keeping myself under control when I'd decided something like that.

I have no idea what his expression might have told me about him as he strode behind me, but I'm pretty sure he was staring at my butt. I kept my personal shielding up tight to keep out any lecherous thoughts he might be having. If he was being the perfect gentleman, unlikely as that may have been, I didn't know it at the time. He cleared his throat a few times, but he held his tongue as we approached the shuttle.

When we arrived, I stumbled a little on the first step. That was a surprise. I never did things like that. Paris was right there, in perfect position to grab my elbow and keep me from falling. Mentally, I recoiled, trying to erect my shields even higher before he could buffet me with lustful thoughts.

I was buffeted, all right, but not with lust. Despite his insolent examination of my body, I discovered sex was the last thing on his mind. The man carried within him a crushingly heavy burden of guilt, regret, and self-loathing. Causing the death of his friends was ripping him apart from within. I sensed not a wolf whistle, but rather the blood-curdling howl of a lone wolf shrieking out his loneliness and despair at the moon, in agony because he had been exiled from his pack.

* * *

I know a lot of people think Betazoids are forever poking inside their minds, telepathically extracting their secret thoughts even on casual acquaintance. Absolutely untrue - that's the last thing we would do or would want to do. Besides being unethical, which is drummed into us in early childhood before we have even a hint of a telepathic sense, it's totally impractical. If anything, such a belief illustrates how little those not of a telepathic race know what it's like having thoughts from strangers intruding into one's consciousness at all hours of the day. It would be total chaos.

For our own sanity, we are trained to block out the telepathic sendings of others unless we are in a deliberate, mutually agreed-upon mental conversation. It's difficult for me to explain to one without a telepathic sense how we signal our permission for this, but it's something we do almost without thinking. Subtle tendrils of invitation and acquiescence are projected, and we seldom have trouble discerning those who are open to a silent chat and those who, for whatever reason, are not interested in pursuing such a communication at any given time. Conversely, we are adept at shielding our innermost thoughts and emotional reactions from others unless we are "sending" to each other.

Those of other races generally have no knowledge of such shielding. It is all up to the Betazoid to block thoughts and emotions out. While it takes training, after a while it becomes second nature.

But just as non-telepathic individuals may try not to eavesdrop upon a spoken conversation but still overhear one anyway, a telepath may sense the thoughts of another despite a mighty effort to avoid it. Paris was like that from the first. Since I'd learned pretty quickly that Tom Paris was _not_ the selfish, unfeeling bastard Fitz said he was, I pitied the man.

So, when he started flirting shamelessly, I let him. It took an effort not to laugh, actually. What dumb pick-up lines! To be charitable, he must have gotten pretty rusty while he was locked up in Auckland, but my playing along served another purpose. While we were trading barbs, his emotional turmoil smoothed over enough for me to tolerate being near him. When he responded to my question about whether he always flew at women at warp speed with, "only when they're in visual range," I was unable to keep my face completely free of a smirk. By the time we were approaching Deep Space Nine, I found myself imagining a few warm and sensual ways to pass the time with Mr. Paris, despite my vow to keep away from him.

At his first sight of _Voyager_, all flirting stopped, on my part as well as his. As I proudly ticked off _Voyager's_ stats, he leaned forward, hungrily drinking in the ship's clean lines. I doubt anyone could have missed what he felt from looking at his face, let alone a Betazoid who could feel how badly he wanted it. Tom Paris was a true pilot. He'd forgotten all about me. He fell deeply in love with _Voyager_ at first sight. His naked yearning to take _Voyager's_ controls in hand and fly her, rather than me, emanated from him in pulses of desire.

At least I knew I was no longer in danger of falling into a relationship that had no future. There was no way I was going to compete with _HER_.

* * *

I avoided Paris for the next couple of days as we headed out to the Badlands on our mission. It was better that way. Whenever I did encounter him, the flaring of emotions from him was disquieting, at best. Throw in the revulsion radiating from anyone who happened to be near him, and I felt like I was being pummeled relentlessly. The man certainly knew how to stir up trouble. I doubt he realized how damaging his brittle facade was. His defense mechanism of pretending not to care about anything - when he wasn't actively trying to piss everyone else off - engendered an enmity among the crew that was painful to me, let alone him.

I think that's when I also knew his true purpose was to punish himself for what he'd done. As if losing his freedom as well as the right to pilot a starship, the one thing he cared about most (at that time, at least), wasn't enough! It's strange to think that someone who walked around with a tree-sized chip on his shoulder could have been beating himself up with it, but that was the reality.

No one wanted to hear about the reality, of course. I could perceive _that _pretty easily from my crew mates, so I didn't bother to say anything. I decided I'd clue in my shipmates about the "real" Tom Paris later, after the close of our mission. When he was no longer around, they might be in the mood to listen. I'm a little ashamed to admit my lack of courage now. In my own defense, I never had all that much time to change my mind. Once we arrived in the Badlands, everything happened so quickly.

We were on the bridge. Our new ops officer announced that we were being scanned by a coherent tetryon beam. Then he announced that a displacement wave was moving towards us. Something else happened, but I never could remember for myself what it was. It takes a few minutes of consciousness for a short term memory to transfer into a long term memory, but I didn't get them. I learned later my console exploded as the ship was grabbed by the displacement wave. I was thrown away from my helm chair just far enough from the console when it exploded that I wasn't killed. Maimed and blinded, yes, but not killed.

I heard all about the Caretaker later. Much later. But thanks to the Caretaker, I lost the next several weeks of my life. By the time I was conscious again, my life, and that of everyone on _Voyager_, had changed completely.

* * *

"Hey, there, Sleeping Beauty. Are you finally waking up?"

I swam out of insensibility, stroking towards the light tenor voice, trying to orient myself to time and place by identifying it, but it took a tremendous effort. If I hadn't felt the mixture of bravado and self-loathing lurking in the mind underneath the voice, I don't know if I would have recognized it as that of Tom Paris. I moaned a little and tried to force my eyes open to see.

I felt a hand grab mine as I struggled to part my lids. I could have sworn I had opened them, but I still couldn't see anything.

That's when I knew, just before Tom's concern and worry transformed into a flash of pity. He amazingly put it down ruthlessly and replaced it with what I can only describe as friendly determination. He was about to confirm my fear.

"I'm blind, aren't I?" I said, forestalling the need for him to tell me the unhappy truth.

"Yes. The helm console exploded. The Doc's kept you in an artificial coma for several weeks to give you a chance to heal."

He didn't need to say any more. It was impossible for him to block out his memory of rushing to the ruined console, turning me around, and gasping as the extent of my injuries became apparent. I didn't need eyes to see his fingers touching my neck to find the feeble flutter of pulse, to relive the surge of panic when he quickly shoved away from me just far enough to sweep me up in his arms, or to visualize him rushing me to sickbay. Thankfully, thanks to emergency power, the turbolift was still working. My stomach churned at his memory of my ruined face.

Involuntarily, I reached up to touch my cheek. Smooth skin. The doctor had healed me, at least there.

Only the doctor he imagined working over me was a total stranger, not Fitz. I was puzzled. I must have projected my confusion to him, for he said, "Dr. Fitzgerald was killed the same time you were injured. Don't worry. We've got the Emergency Medical Hologram supplying all our medical needs now. Oh, and you've got me, too, of course. Field Medic Tom Paris, at your service."

I had barely digested what Tom had just told me, that Fitz was dead, when another voice, rather gruff and formal, called out, "Ah, yes. I see you're awake, Lieutenant Stadi. Excellent. We have some decisions to make about your care, as soon as I have an opportunity to discuss them. However, at the moment Mr. Neelix is in critical need of attention. Mr. Paris, please stop flirting with my patient and come help me with him."

"He's waking up, Doctor," I heard a mellow and sweetly rich voice, feminine, but which I was certain I'd never heard before.

"Mr. Paris! I need you now!" The EMH's voice was imperious.

"Gotta go," Tom whispered, giving my hand another squeeze. As he did, I caught a glimpse of a jumble of memories to mull over. The mysterious Talaxian and his lover Kes, obviously the possessor of the mellow female voice, were our crew mates now.

This Neelix had had his lungs stolen by some alien race called the Vidiians. I'd never heard of them before, either, but that was not a surprise. Overriding every other memory I'd just picked up from Tom was one brutal fact. _Voyager_ was in the Delta Quadrant. It would take us a lifetime to get home. And then, like the grinding of a hundred and fifty sets of mechanical gears all failing at the same time, I became conscious of a buzz of voices, thoughts, and emotions all ringing in my head at the same time. I tried to shut them out. I panicked when I realized I couldn't.

* * *

The EMH and Kes filled me in later, after Neelix's crisis with was resolved by Kes donating one of her lungs to him. I had been comatose for weeks after Caretaker snatched _Voyager_ into the Delta Quadrant. I probably would have died if not for our "observer." He'd carried me down to Sickbay and threw me into a stasis unit which kept me alive, just barely, until our Chief Medical Officer could find the time to work on me. Because I was in stasis, I was the only one of the crew the Caretaker never bothered to examine on his array. I assume he either didn't perceive my presence as a living being or didn't feel I could survive long enough to fulfill his purpose. With everyone else gone, the EMH was free to spend all of his time working on me, and I had needed every minute he could spare.

My eyes had been completely destroyed in the explosion of the console. The EMH was able to restore my face to its former state via his skills as a plastic surgeon, but the only thing he could do about my sight was provide me with a visual prosthesis. As he'd promised, once the crisis with Neelix's lungs was over, the Doctor discussed my options. I could have a VISOR, a time-honored technology, or he could try fitting me with experimental artificial eyeballs, which he believed could be implanted in my reconstructed eye sockets. The implants would work much like the VISOR. He said he could not make them look like Betazoid eyes, or even human eyes, for that matter, since the pupils would have a mechanical sort of look. He promised to work on refining them in his spare time.

Since VISORs are well known for causing a great deal of pain to their wearers, I opted for the experimental implants. Like the VISOR, the implants enabled me to see wavelengths of light far outside of the normal spectrum of any humanoid being, an advantage once one gets used to them. I would never see the same way as others again. I could probably have gone back to piloting regularly, if a visual aid was all that it took to get me back to the helm. That had also been reconstructed, obviously, while I was comatose.

Unfortunately, a visual aid wasn't all I needed. I also needed relief from the migraine headaches that wouldn't quit. They waxed and waned all day long. Sometimes they were only a dull ache, but generally the inside my skull pounded continuously in pain, thanks to the clamor of about a hundred and fifty or so minds butting heads inside my own. I don't think I could have survived the pain from a VISOR, too.

I had suffered the type of brain damage feared most by Betazoids, even more than totally losing the ability to communicate telepathically. My ability to erect personal shielding to wall away the thoughts of others had been permanently compromised. The thoughts of everyone on board the ship intruded upon me every waking hour. And awake I most surely was, for almost all hours of the day, because falling to sleep was almost impossible under those conditions. To sleep at all, I had to make my bed inside a stasis chamber in Sickbay. It was, in a word, Hell, and for months after that first talk with Tom, I was barely a part of the crew. If Commander Tuvok hadn't helped me put my life back together, I think I'd still be sleeping in a stasis chamber.

Tuvok did wonders for me. Through weekly mind melds he was able to accomplish what my one Betazoid crew mate (the murderer, Lon Suder) could not. He helped me pick through my memories to rediscover the techniques I'd learned as a child, when I first developed my telepathic abilities, so I could deal with extraneous mental incursions. I had to face the fact that I would never again be able to completely shut out mental background noise. (This is true even today, when I have the benefit of the best therapists on Betazed. I am permanently disabled.) I finally learned enough filters so that, instead of only being a permanent drain on the ship's resources, I became a useful member of _Voyager's_ crew once again, although only a part-time one.

It was always hard, though, and even harder for me to accept my changed circumstances: I was the Chief Helm Officer of _Voyager_, but I didn't dare take the conn except in the deepest hours of Gamma Shift. When most of the crew was asleep, I was better able to filter out the "noise" from those who remained awake, whether they were on or off duty. At first I could only handle the distractions and fly the ship when Commander Tuvok was in command, because he was able to channel his own thoughts so precisely. He was able to "send" me only what I needed for navigation purposes. I wonder now how hard that was upon him. He had studied Vulcan mental disciplines, but I know how difficult it is to NOT think about something when you know you're not supposed to think about it!

As time went on I learned to work with both Lieutenant Rollins and Ensign Harry Kim as well, but that easy communion between commanding officer and Betazoid helm officer, the mutually agreed upon mental tie that enabled me to implement a course change before the captain had a chance to say the new heading aloud - that sort of speedy reaction was gone forever. I had lost two senses, and the one I missed the most was the ability to live within my mind alone.

I often wondered, during that first year, if I wouldn't have been better off dead, like Fitz. Or Cavit, who had been replaced as first officer by the Maquis officer we had been sent to find; or our engineer, who had been a fine person despite not being nearly as creative as our new half-Klingon chief engineer, B'Elanna Torres, also a former Maquis. Certainly the new primary helm officer, Lieutenant j.g. (brevet rank) Thomas Eugene Paris, was far my superior at the helm. The funny thing is, I think he may have been before, too, even though he had no Betazoid blood in him that I ever heard about. The man could anticipate the captain's orders even better than I ever did.

People tried to hide that from me, but it was impossible. Their thoughts showed me, even before the prosthetic devices were implanted so that I could see him in action for myself. All of them couldn't be exaggerating his skills to exactly the same degree. No, I eventually had to admit it to myself. Even if I had never been injured, Tom Paris would have been the superior pilot. Because of my injury, there was no contest at all.


	2. Adaptations

As time wore on I accepted what had happened. What other choice did I have? When there was an emergency when I was at the conn, I learned to call for relief as soon as the red alert sounded. I knew that once everyone had awakened, I would no longer be able to concentrate. The crew's emotions as they churned to consciousness created a cacophony with which I could not deal in a crisis.

Most of the time, once someone else (usually Tom) came to the helm, I would slip away to Sickbay, to stay with the Doctor and Kes. Unless a large influx of casualties flowed in, I could have a measure of peace there. If it got too bad, the Doctor would load me into a stasis chamber and I would sleep away the crisis. The Doctor, of course, was a sophisticated computer program and didn't have thoughts of the type that a telepath could access. Kes' growing powers of mind were groomed by Tuvok so that I didn't need to worry about her.

Lieutenant Benara Stadi, Chief Helm Officer of _Voyager_, spent most of the ship's encounters with hostile Delta Quadrant races such as the Kazon, the Vidiians, the Hirogen, the Voth, and even the Borg, sealed up like a present to be presented to the victor. When the Nyrians took over _Voyager_, I was the first one they sent to the Habitat. I'm not sure how they knew I would be a danger, because of my now too-acute telepathic sense. Maybe they were just lucky to pick me first. When the Srivani scientists came on board, I didn't see them. They put me into a coma immediately, and I don't even know what sort of experiment they might have been working on with me. My marvelous eyes were closed. They were as undetectable to me as to everyone else, other than Seven.

* * *

Solace in the arms of another would have been wonderful, had I been able to find someone to give it, but it was not to be. Since I was now officially Tom's immediate supervisor, I could no longer entertain any thoughts of taking advantage of that enticing body of his.

Of the rest who survived our trip to the Delta Quadrant, none really pleased me. Perhaps it is too much to expect to find a soul mate when the pool of available souls is so small. Actually, not many did pair up during our seven year journey back home. Perhaps if the trip had lasted longer, the prospect of remaining alone for the rest of our days may have motivated more of us to settle down. Maybe that someone would only be reasonably compatible in personality, not the passionate love for life everyone hopes to find but so seldom does. Given the odds, it was remarkable anyone at all found their heart's desire on _Voyager_. I think that may be why all of us lived vicariously through Torres and Paris as they engaged in their stormy but ultimately gratifying romance.

Even when I first woke up and was struggling with my sanity, Tom's antics engaged me in a way no one else's did. I often amused myself with the gossip about him. The dichotomy between the outer and inner man was so great, I wasn't surprised it took so long for Tom to realize he wasn't the man he portrayed himself to be: the unrepentant ladies' man and incorrigible flirt. The man did have standards, even when he was flying at every woman on the ship at warp speed. For a long time, there were only two whose opinion really mattered to him, and one of them - the captain - was definitely off limits. And, okay, my opinion mattered, too, but only because I was his boss. That made me off limits, too.

The ironic thing is, I never really was his boss in the way that usually meant. He was the chief helm officer in every way except on the ship's command flow chart. Everyone knows that the chief helm officer should be the best pilot on the ship. I wasn't - certainly not any more. Although nominally I remained the head of the Navigation Department, in charge of the pilots as well as Stellar Cartography and Astrometrics (until La Borg arrived, that is), for all intents and purposes, I ceded the helm chair to Tom.

Tom always reported to me. To him I was always his superior, always Lieutenant Stadi, never Benara. In my less praise-worthy moments, I attributed this to his desire to deal with me in order to avoid more contact with Commander Chakotay than was absolutely necessary. Whenever I was feeling well enough to be fair, I knew it was Tom's ingrained adherence to Starfleet protocols that was to blame. Even if I had wanted to be one of the women he pursued, he would never have done it. He couldn't have done it.

It always amused me, in a black comedy sort of way, that _Voyager's_ ex-Starfleet, ex-Maquis, ex-con Bad Boy could adhere as rigidly to the essential, established protocols like non-fraternization while seemingly being offhandedly non-compliant with them. I knew the truth, because his mind shouted at me all the time. He had that choir boy face with the Lothario grin slapped over it, disguising his most noble impulses with a wisecrack, in a fruitless effort to hide the pain of his own past from himself. It was as if he felt he didn't deserve the acceptance of others. He punished himself, far more than his imprisonment at Auckland ever had. Whenever I was in the same room as Tom, I had to deal with mental double and triple images of him, not only from everyone around him, but from Tom himself. The best way to describe it, I guess, is that it always felt the way it did looking through a badly out-of-focus astrometrical instrument at a star. He oozed out so many overlapping and confused emotions, I could never get a comfortable fix upon him.

Once I was able to control my disability enough to be able to relate to the crew, I often wanted to kick Tom for pretending to be something he wasn't. I didn't see him at his very worst, fortunately - I was comatose or locked up in stasis during those first couple of months. I heard about it later. Everyone said he acted like a total pig whenever he wasn't on duty at the helm.

Thanks to those first few days before the Caretaker took us, I knew what he was hiding. It wasn't so bad when he was in Sickbay during the captain's first foray into making him the "Doctor's nurse." He was always on his best behavior when he was caring for me while I was recovering from my injuries. Whenever I had to deal with the multi-layered Mr. Paris elsewhere, however, I struggled.

It was strange. Maybe I could have fallen in love with him, if I had let myself, but I have my pride. I was satisfied with the memory of his flirtatiousness when we'd first met, when he'd been so appreciative of my charms - until he caught sight of _Voyager_. Besides, I knew who really fascinated him, and it wasn't me any more than it was any of the other women who gossiped about him mercilessly at the same time they lusted after him. It was really always B'Elanna.

What was it he saw in her? Besides the fact that she was beautiful, brilliant, feisty, the possessor of a loyal, loving heart, and perfect for him?

Seriously, all sarcasm aside, thanks to my inability to completely filter out what others were thinking, I have a few other ideas, too. For one thing, their early life experiences had plastered both with massive self-esteem problems. Despite the differences in the details, their early family lives had set them up for dysfunctional adulthoods. They both felt like failures, trying to work their way to self-respect and self-knowledge. Ironically, they ended up with the perfect opportunity to do just that on _Voyager_. They were so far out of the mainstream of life in the Federation, they only had to worry about what our own crew felt about them. Once the crew realized how lucky we were to have their consummate skills, they became fiercely protective of the pair. And very early on, both Tom and B'Elanna recognized how fortunate they were to be on _Voyager, _too. Neither of them really wanted to get "home." Life was better for them in the Delta Quadrant.

I perceived, long before they did, that they were truly meant for each other. Actually, I can't take a lot of credit for that. I think everyone on board the entire ship knew they were meant for each other before they did. Didn't take the empathic senses of a telepathic Betazoid to figure that one out.

It was just about the only betting pool on board _Voyager_ Tom didn't have any part in running. I was never allowed to bet, of course. Everyone assumed that, as a telepath, I would have inside information. I probably did, in most cases, but who could anticipate that a young Vulcan going into _pon farr_ for the first time would finally force the issue? That they would let down their respective guards then long enough to admit their true feelings to one another? Or that afterwards, they would hold out for several more weeks before taking that last step to become lovers? Then it took them even more years before they finally broke down and decided to marry. I think I wanted to kick both of them many times before then. I don't remember now if that pool was ever awarded to anyone. Deciding at which point they finally were "together" was complicated, that's for sure.

Our trip home was eventful, as has been related far better by many others. At the outset, we expected we would need to travel for 70 years to get back to Sector Zero-Zero-One. We did it in a tenth of the time. There were losses, of course. Kaplan, Jetal, Ballard, Hogan, Bendera, Carey, andso many others. Every one was so painful to me, since I could not prevent myself from sharing everyone's pain. For me the worst of all was Kes. She started out as a total unknown, but as her telepathic abilities developed, she became almost like a sister. Thanks to her studies with Tuvok, by the second year of our journey Kes was helping me with my mental shielding. When she left the ship, I missed her so very much. I was in very bad state for quite a while, particularly since the Borg and Species 8472 were threatening _Voyager_ around that time, too.

Everyone was in very bad shape during that time. We all woke up each day wondering if this was the day we would lose the battle and be assimilated. Adding to the trauma, the captain was terribly upset by the rupture in the relationship of Chakotay and herself. They had actually become quite close after being marooned on that isolated planet for a few months, not to mention when we took that unexpected foray into the twentieth century. For a while, I thought they would be the first to become a couple (since Tom and B'Elanna were dithering so much around that time).

But first, because of Riley Frazier and the former Borg community, and then after Seven-of-Nine came on board, the wedge driven between them, thanks to the Borg, never completely healed. He always did his duty as her first officer, but Captain Janeway went her own way every time anyway no matter what he said. It worked out well enough, I guess, considering that we did finally get home, but it cost both of our most senior officers so much grief. That non-fraternization policy creates as much or more pain at times than it is designed to prevent.

It was lonely for her, especially during the last year of our journey, after Seven developed a romantic interest in Chakotay. The captain was very accepting of their relationship outwardly, but I knew how much it hurt her. I found it impossible to block out her sadness and loneliness. She'd become our mother, not just our commanding officer, but always on her own. In this case, being a single parent was just too much for one person to handle. Chakotay was perfectly willing and able to be our "father" if she would allow it. But she wouldn't.

The worst time was when we encountered the other Starfleet ship, _Equinox_. I missed a lot of that, because I landed in stasis in Sickbay again, with some sort of dampening shield placed around my body because they didn't want those attacking aliens to find me. I was too vulnerable, not only to the emotions of everyone on board _Voyager_, but also to those mental shrieks from the attacking aliens. Maybe if I hadn't been shut away, I would have picked up on what Captain Ransom and his first officer Max intended soon enough to prevent what ended up happening. When I did wake up, the chill factor between the captain and Chakotay was so severe, I almost asked to be put back in stasis to avoid the turmoil emanating pulse-like from the minds of both of my superior officers.

* * *

The captain had that love/hate relationship going on with the Borg for so long, it's not surprising they ended up being critical to our return home. By the time the Borg children came on board, we were happy to have them, since we'd already had a chance to return Seven to some degree of individuality. We had some practice with the process! I was sorry when Mezoti left _Voyager_. I didn't mind when the twin boys were returned to family members, but I found her to be quite delightful. Since Mezoti's own people the Norcadi didn't want her, I think she really would have been better off with _Voyager's_ crew. Rebi and Azan's family took her in, but she would have been such good company for Naomi Wildman. Marla Gilmore took care of the little Borg baby and eventually adopted her.

I'm still upset I never caught on to what Icheb's parents were up to when they asked for his return, but the Brunali are like the Ferengi. Betazoids can't read them. I'm happy Icheb ended up coming all the way home with us, since I could relate to him without his thoughts buzzing inside my head all the time. He's turned into such a fine officer. Icheb visits me whenever he is near Betazed if he can and keeps me filled me in on what is happening with the rest of our crew.

Ensign Kim, finally promoted to Lieutenant after the return, is now a Lieutenant Commander. He seems to be doing the "loneliness of command" thing so many ambitious officers end up doing. Such a waste. Tom and B'Elanna are on their third child. She's still in Starfleet after her pardon, although most of the Maquis left after the return. I can't say I blame them. They were freedom fighters, not officers committed to life aboard a starship, let alone Starfleet itself. They'd had enough of it in the Delta Quadrant! Tom is a flight instructor at Starfleet Academy. That's the best job I can think of for him, particularly since he's also a committed father. No wandering the stars for him, leaving his family behind at home, the way his father the Admiral did with Tom's own family.

Tuvok has retired to Vulcan. When he resigned his commission, he stated it was for "personal" reasons. No one doubts the true reason is that he never intends to spend another _pon farr_ away from his wife for the rest of their lives. It was tough on him, especially when he and Tom were lost in that gravity well for what seemed like only a couple of days to us, but was perceived to be an exile of months for Tuvok and Tom. They thought our ship must have left them long behind before we were finally able to rescue them.

Chakotay and Seven were a couple for a while, but I always had a hunch it wouldn't last. He was her "first boyfriend," (Harry Kim would have liked to have been that to Seven, but she never made it easy for him). I'm not sure Seven - or I guess I should call her Annika Hansen now, since she's gone back to her birth name - will ever commit to a long-term relationship. It's ironic. The woman who was once part of the Collective, who was frantic when she was separated from the others in her Unimatrix, is now one of the most solitary people I've ever known, but there you are. Captain Janeway put so much time and energy into her pet project, the restoration of the Borg Seven-of-Nine back into the human Annika Hansen. It was more or less a success. Seven did return to humanity, but not all the way back. Eventually she had a falling out with Chakotay, and he went off to rebuild his native world, Dorvan. Alone. I haven't heard from him since. Lieutenant Icheb hasn't, either.

Captain Janeway came to see me a few times after our return to the Alpha Quadrant. Now that she's an admiral, she no longer has the time to come to see me often. I guess I can understand. She's dedicated her life to her career. The last time she visited, we discussed the sacrifice that Admiral Kathryn Janeway made to help us get home. It's possible that future has been compromised, and she'll never have to make that sacrifice. Temporal mechanics was never very comprehensible to me anyway, and Admiral Janeway claims it gives her a terrible headache. I can identify with that! She's not taking chances about her future, however. If that sacrifice must be made, she will make it with a clear conscience, with no husband or child left behind to mourn her loss. I find that very sad.

Actually, I live quite a solitary life myself. My mental state is still fragile, thanks to my disability. The specialists all believe I've reached a plateau in my recovery. I can never expect to develop the capacity to shield myself from the thoughts of others any better than I have to this point. Most of the examiners have told me I've done better than they could have anticipated, under the circumstances. I always thank Tuvok and Kes for that.

I participate in telepathic studies and attend symposiums when I'm asked, as long as they take place in isolated places and with limited attendance by non-Betazoids, who are unable to shield their thoughts away from me. It's still so difficult for me to cope with a multiplicity of minds. There's some thought the treatments given to me - spending extended periods of time in stasis, coupled with intensive mind meld treatments - will become the standard for treating "Stadi Syndrome" in the future.

I hope so. So many Betazoids end up taking their own lives because they are unable to live with themselves if they suffer from Stadi Syndrome. I would like to know my travails have brought some good to others by providing a viable treatment to combat this condition. If only I could have healed myself, the way Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres healed each other on our long journey back home!

Sometimes I think that it might have been better if I did die when the Caretaker stole us away, all those years ago. At other times, I'm glad I'm here to tell my story, to bear witness to what was the most extraordinary voyage of discovery known in the annals of Starfleet. In my humble opinion, Captain Janeway and the crew of _Voyager_ surpassed the legendary Captain James T. Kirk in that regard.

Just my opinion, of course!

End

* * *

Paramount owns Star Trek Voyager and all the characters. No claim of ownership is being made. Lt. Stadi's first name was never given in the credits or any literature I've been able to find about Voyager. I do not know if someone else came up with the name Benara Stadi, but somehow it fits her. If someone else did invent it, thanks! Sorry I can't identify you by name.


End file.
